The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(14)

"No matter," Mal replied. "Come, sit down."

The boy took off his cloak and gloves and sat down next to Mal. Gabriel joined them, and Ned spooned a little of the pottage into each bowl. Even with their whole loaf of bread, it would have made a meagre supper for five.

"You were about to tell me your own news," he said to Mal, taking his place on the bench opposite Gabriel.

Gabriel shot him a reproving look and folded his hands on the table. Mal followed suit; Hendricks' head was already bowed over his clasped hands. Whilst Gabriel said grace, Ned couldn't help but notice out of the corner of his eye that Sandy just sat there, watching them all curiously.

Mal cut the pie into five wedges.

"Cod and onion, eh? Looks like it's mostly onion."

He helped himself to a piece and passed the plate around.

Ned tried to raise the subject of Mal's news from abroad several times during the meal, but Mal always neatly deflected his questions and instead took more than his usual interest in the doings of the theatre company. Gabriel, of course, was more than happy to be the centre of attention.

"Shakespeare says he's nearly finished Romeo and Juliet," Gabriel said, setting down his spoon, "so we will be playing it this summer."

"Shakespeare says that every winter," Ned replied. "How long has he been writing that play?"

Gabriel ignored him.

"I am to play Tybalt, Juliet's cousin, and die in a duel with Romeo. Burbage will be Romeo, of course."

"I would like to see that," Sandy said. "I have not been to an English theatre before, and we do not have anything quite like them in the New World."

Away with the fairies after all then. Ned stirred his pottage, biting his lip lest he say something discourteous. Poor Mal. He had had such high hopes of the skraylings being able to cure his brother.

"I doubt we are staying that long," Mal said, breaking the awkward silence. He rose from his seat and beckoned to Hendricks. "My apologies, gentlemen, but we have urgent business in the city."

"Tonight?" Ned said. "In the dark and the snow?"

"We're only going across the river, not back to France." Mal turned to Sandy. "Make yourself comfortable. We'll be back before curfew."

He patted his brother on the shoulder and departed with Hendricks in tow. Gabriel helped Ned to clear away the dirty dishes then excused himself, saying he had some sides to learn for tomorrow's rehearsal.

Ned sluiced the bowls clean in a bucket of water and wiped each one dry with a rag, all the time feeling as though Sandy's eyes were boring into his back. He still wasn't entirely clear what had happened in that cellar two years ago, and he wasn't sure he wanted to. Mal had said something about the duke having drugged everyone by burning a skrayling herb so they imagined things that weren't there, but Ned knew what he'd seen. One moment Sandy had been bound back-to-back with Mal around a pillar, the next he was gone. If that wasn't skrayling witchcraft, he was a Dutchman.

He looked up with a start to see Sandy standing over him.

"You're afraid of me, aren't you?"

"No," Ned replied, glancing around the kitchen in the hope of spotting a handy weapon. The carving knife was still on the table, and the fire irons out of reach on the hearth.

"Yes you are."

"All right, yes, dammit." Ned straightened up, putting as much distance between them as he could without actually retreating. "Now say what you have to say and be done with it."

"Good. We understand one another. So understand this." Sandy leant closer, fixing Ned with his dark eyes that were so like Mal's – and yet unlike. "If you ever betray my brother again, I will come for you."

Ned swallowed, unable to tear his gaze away.

"In the night, whilst you sleep," Sandy went on. "And if you are very lucky, I will only kill you."

Coby followed Mal through the darkening streets, her stomach churning in nervous anticipation. This was the first time she had accompanied Mal to Walsingham's house, and she had no idea what to expect. The Queen's spymaster had a formidable reputation as a man of brilliance, cunning, and dogged devotion to the Crown.

Their route took them over London Bridge and along Thames Street almost as far as the Tower. The streets were empty, most citizens having the good sense to stay at home on a night like this. A freezing east wind blew gusts of tiny snow pellets into their faces, and Coby bent her head against the onslaught, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders.

Just before Petty Wales they turned aside into Seething Lane, a narrow street lined with tall timber-framed houses. Mal went most of the way to the end and knocked on a door. It was opened almost immediately by a servant, who frowned at the two visitors in suspicion. Coby wondered if the Queen herself would come under the same scrutiny, if she turned up on the spymaster's doorstep unannounced.

"Maliverny Catlyn, to see Sir Francis," Mal said.

They were ushered inside and left to wait in a black-andwhite panelled atrium whilst the servant went upstairs.

"Should we take off our cloaks, sir?" Coby asked in a whisper, conscious that she was dripping on the tiled floor.

"Best to wait until we know we are to be admitted," Mal replied.

A voice sounded from the floor above: a woman, quietly insistent. Coby couldn't hear whoever it was she argued with. A few moments later the servant returned, took charge of their damp cloaks and directed them up the stairs towards a half-open door. Before they could reach it, however, the door opened and a woman – the woman? – came out. She was about Master Catlyn's age, small and dark-haired, with a heart-shaped face and shrewd dark eyes. Mal bowed deeply.